Letters from the sky
by Exoducy
Summary: Loki's words pick up where her memories of scenes begin. LokixNatasha/Black Widow.


**Loki's words pick up where her memories of particular scenes begin. This is my own rendition and a practice on perspectives of (maybe) unlikely lovers.  
**

**LokixNatasha/Black Widow.**

**Always feel happily free with corrections and (yes, even this!) flaming. I have a lot of trouble with formatting the text and would prefer not to use lines, but three-dotted lines; yet the editor keeps living its own life, so I need a few tips on that also.**

As always, read in 1/2 for the best experience!

* * *

N,

I am allowed a scarce sheet of papyrus and the thinnest stylus. The ink is blue and once a word is written only the strongest mind will bend them out of shape. There are no windows but I know it is night because when I listen carefully, you emit sounds of a most peaceful sleep on Earth. Your uncomfortable dreams are obliterated; it brings me joy, somehow. To write also gives me joy, because it means I am only stripped of power within Odin's immediate sense, and it means I still have a chance of crossing over one more time. I write in secrecy. This is a first to me, trying to touch something outside the reach of my abilities; no flick of my wrist will guarantee the right connection. Still, I will move my hand to connect with you.

* * *

They are going down the street holding hands, traversing unending strips and orders of a million humans. She feels his clammy fingers rolling her own, between flesh and twitchy tendons, and she is reluctant to answer his quick squeeze. "What a great day," he says, and files her into the steady, rhythmical order of moving humanity.  
She returns the squeeze and dare release her eyes from the crowd - it's not very likely someone will see them here - to watch his neck; slowly working up to the tanned cheeks and his sweaty left temple. He got rid of the slight sideburns yesterday and their absence fits him better, she thinks. A drop falls down on his collar. Today, he chose to wear a shirt; he never wears a shirt. At this point, he suddenly stops and asks her why she is watching him.  
"I just admired you," she says. She kisses him casually and won't stop thinking about the striped baby blue shirt with the slightly darker taints of sweat. The weather is uncannily hot and there is nothing disgusting about perspiration, she thinks. She sweats buckets, too. But Clint never wears a shirt. In a shirt, he moves like a bird with cut wings. Everything is wrong with bird forced to remain grounded. A bird which cannot fly wherever he wants.  
"Is something wrong?" he says.  
"Of course not!" she says and kisses him again.  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes." She kisses him a third time to get them going. With an oblivious smile he strains his thumb hard against her palm before dragging them back into the line of businessmen, tourists and lovers. Like us, she thinks. Humans.  
Later, when the day is over and she's had too much brightness from the sun and his sharp eyes as he admires her, - as casually as she touches his thigh - and kisses her goodnight, she will search her coffee table in the dark of the night.  
With only the faint glow of the city the reading will continue.

* * *

N,

It was the conversations on the roof that convinced me. It angers me relentlessly it was Thor's work of conviction also, and while knowing all this, he still decided to aid in my downfall. You mortality is pure; do not blame yourself. There is no way to prevent this. I regret nothing. They have prepared the basilisk and my mother comes to me when no one else knows, speaking of a woman named Sigyn. This Sigyn claims she knows how to keep me alive. When I ask mother, she says there is no bargain. I can see that she's lying. If she knew that I already am living fully… taking joy in listening to the night envelop your room and the seat, in which you sit in that manner. It irritated me, at first. How could such beauty be wasted on a bad posture? In such a gown? On such a night? Mortals are truly unintelligent, but when the dim lights cut your shape out in the dark as you stood, I recognized potential.

* * *

They had fucked hard against the (barely) closed door. It was one of the millions unused and anonymous of Stark tower, a door which she chose to put her name on when half of S.H.I.E.L.D replaced their homes to get a smooth transition from ordinary chores to preparation for war.  
"My name," he had said, panting hard with a deep voice, playing below her throaty moans, carrying her voice higher and higher. "Say it."  
His thrusts were demanding but they put the dot after ever sentence she couldn't form. They were set just at the right angle and every time they hit she clutched him harder with her slick thighs, which made him moan, and her moan, until they moved harder and faster and their voices started to meld into sounds that were a result of suppression and release, like a thousand small implosions and explosions separated by a palpable skin, vibrating by the contrasts. His name remained unsaid.  
They had left their fancy apparel on. When almost there, she took his deep green scarf in her mouth and bit down on it while clawing at the sleeves of his formal suit. He ripped her dress effortlessly before exiting her. When she thoughtlessly expressed frustration and asked what the hell he was doing, he put his palm on her ass and hit her hard, spanking her towards the bed, occasionally pressing in on her from behind, reminding her; guiding with his length.  
"Oh, god," she said as he entered again and did her, painfully slowly, filing her with trickling anticipation.  
"Yes?" he said.

* * *

N,

How fares your old and new lover?  
Is he godlike? Intimate?

* * *

After their lovemaking Clint finds her standing naked and alert in the dark. He comes out of the bathroom with the towel snugly tied around his waist, as if she hasn't seen all of him ten minutes ago. She dislikes that particular display of his; he shouldn't try being so mysterious. She dislikes the sound of him clipping his nails, and the very casual sound his shaver makes when he (probably) trims his chest.  
"We need to talk," she says with her face heating up of irrational anger.  
"I've flushed the remains down."  
"It's not about chipped nails in my sink," she says and shifts her weight away from him, like a stern straw of grass, bent but not broken after a strong wind.  
"There are no hairs left there either."  
"It's…"  
Clint snakes his arms around her - "The rest are waiting for us." - resting his head on his neck. He has groomed himself meticulously. The straws of grass in her back bows down, almost touching the ground. Almost letting him in, barely closing her eyes at his touch. Clint breathes, Clint's here; everywhere. Enjoying doesn't come naturally for her and she can't close her lids even now. They stand together and he cradles her while her mind wavers in all directions but one. Facing a particular thought, she puts his palms on her eyes - to get some rest from the green neon lights outside the window and the rain, which amplifies the lustrous reflections - Clint is here. Clint likes her. _He's_ here.  
The fan of his breath is a tad bit too warm. She looses herself too easily in spectacles of tiny lights, while Clint remains behind her.  
It is not enough.

* * *

N,

Among the things that enticed me a lot were the artificial. On a humid night, water fell, and reflected the colors on windows particularly oddly. I found it strange how in a room full of shadows they would still not illuminate, or spread widely between the walls and expand in a play of a thousand different wavelengths. They did not respond to my magic, either.  
There are no artificial lights in Asgard. More than often, I think about the one-of-a-kind neo (or was it "neon"?) lady, explicitly burying her hand in a swell of locks on her head, pathetically; her vulgarity fit only to serve you, to adorn you with the violet shimmer, silently casted upon your nude form, which was all but vulgar. Did you know I hear the light?

* * *

"Striptease?"  
Clint is here. They are here. Eating dinner; him reaching for her feet with his own under the fancy table with the fancy delicious food, which she barely touches.  
"What?" she says.  
"You have stared at the neon sign a lot of the time."  
Unsuccessful with his feet he reaches for her hand, inclining her wrist towards his cheek; "I know you're tired, but they all are here waiting, they are our friends and colleagues and the war is over."  
Every motion and word that escapes him involuntarily brims with desperation; is there also fear? She doesn't know just now. But possibly, she has always known. From the very start and their first unison she would (and it was known) – in the end, by her own accord – rise up, casually, the end of the rope; "Clint, I need to go."  
The last time she kisses him he shines in delight, and the familiarity of rejection is so familiar to him that he accepts it with a faint casual whisper; "Come back soon."  
In their end she would look at him and always wonder if there would be a third chance – or was this the fifth? – turning around because the revolving doors let her catch glimpses of him moving on towards Tony, Pepper and Thor.

* * *

N,

The vehicles are dangerous to soft bodies. I see you running in high heels, your dress straining, making you a bit too clumsy for my taste. Do take care in the traffic tonight. You are not a goddess in that sense.

* * *

Anonymously, she had rented a car with no plates and an interior that revealed nothing of her personal taste, and driven them to the highest top, like Fury had ordered her to. Since the incident where she had outwitted a God of Mischief Fury dared not use someone else.  
His mouth was collared shut and there was no air exchanged between them under the vast sky of the broad window, framed in black like a serene piece of art. She didn't expect him to move at all when he did; the S.H.I.E.L.D carriers would be here within a few minutes. When his armored attire rustled, he had raised his sedated arm to guide a sweeping finger towards the sky. Chocked, she drew her weapon and pushed it hard into his temple, lest he broke her neck in a way that made sure she heard it before death. He pretended not to feel the gun; sweeping his finger, pointing. Carefully, she took her eyes from his brow and looked up, not sure why the strongest sedation they could inject had worn out.  
In her head; _that is a place where gods live.  
__Would you like to go there, mortal?  
_

* * *

N,

There is not much time left.

* * *

Touching the cold iron under which his silver tongue was confined; she hadn't been asleep in the violet haze back then, but bathed in it, trying to localize the naked god weightlessly moving up from bed. She would either die soon by his hands or wake up alone the next morning, consequences like a solid wall.  
Touching his other hand, which either was or was not sedated. He didn't dare moving it against her hesitating fingers lest she shot him unconscious and he would wake up with a last image of Earth that wasn't complete.  
_Breathe on me_.  
The first feeling of her own breath, which was hot and yearning and alive, was made possible by the cool sky, which seemed to have dived down upon them, filling the car. Maybe it was his breath and not the sky. For a moment she sat on the highest branch on the tree of the World.  
She dared closing her eyes.

* * *

N,

Now is the right time. I am out if ink.

* * *

Falling into her apartment ungracefully; a notion of hysteria in her breathing, and a notion of her own surprise, too, when there is nothing on the coffee table. She is too late to be late and jolts through the door like a frightened doe on high heels with bare legs. She disposes of her shoes in the elevator; pushing them with cold composure into the bottom of the bin. She stratles guests in the other side of Stark Tower as she sprints towards the pavement. It's far to the top, she knows, and keeps accelerating among the traffic, which honks madly when spotting a woman athletically sprinting over hood after hood as if they are insignificant pebbles in her own Universe.  
A sharp and burning halo engulfes her – her phone had been vibrating just now; Clint, he must have seen her running – she averts her attention from controlling the pulse and breathing, and then she is lost in chaos. Panic has not been inside of her since the modification, but now she is a deer in the headlights, starved and losing track for a second. She is blinded, and there comes a sharp pull in her navel.  
When the searing light settles the towers are trees and the windows takes the shapes of shivering leaves and her heart is beating slowly again. A scent lingers. Somehow it had become dawn already. It never occurres to her that he might've failed. She doesn't think he had tricked her when she sits down to rest in defeat.

* * *

_Would you want to-  
_

* * *

His hand dissolves in the instant she jumps awake, turning around to almost catch a transparent smirk melding into a stem of the oak she has been leaning on, dozing off.  
She had almost come in time, she thinks, putting her cold hands into her coat, disappointed in the hallucination and the stubborn wetness pressing on her sanity from behind her eyes.

There is a small piece of paper in the coat, which she notices and unfolds slowly.

The ink collects itself in the skin between her fingers, warm and fresh and deep blue. It doesn't run down when she tries to shake it off, flailing her hand. It rests comfortably, organically attached to her cells. On a whim she parts her lips for the fluid that seems to heave in respiration, and she too, draws a short breath.

A God of Mischief could not always trick, or hate; his greatest flaw was on her tongue – it had been, since the incident at the cylinder cage – and there would be more slips, tastier than this; she could feel both him and herself.  
In all their wrongs, they were the only right for her.

* * *

**If you liked, somewhat (lukewarmly) approve of this, or just want me to kow you happened to read this - please feel free to say something, even if it's a single word. It helps a lot, dude!**


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